


I Am A Monster

by insanity_and



Category: First Wizarding War - Fandom, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanity_and/pseuds/insanity_and
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenrir knows he failed his family, somehow. He knows that since he was bitten, his life amounts to pain and suffering. </p>
<p>Young!Fenrir fic, a year or so after he was bitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am A Monster

**Author's Note:**

> This relies on the headcanon that Fenrir was born into a pureblood family, but after he was bitten he was hidden away as a dirty family secret, and soon ran away from home and changed his name. This is young Fenrir trying to adjust to being a werewolf and his family's reaction to having their perfect son ruined.

It wasn’t the end.

He knew that because they still hadn’t started packing up their things, they were just sitting around while he burned.

He healed quickly. They’d worked that out. The closer he was to a change, the quicker he healed, and the change was tomorrow, so they left the skin they’d sliced off where it lay. A healing spell, or a pain potion. They would have stopped it, but no-one cared about the twelve-year-old werewolf lying on the table. Why would they? He was a subject to them, nothing more. These so called werewolf experts, apothecaries, they all had different names, and they all worked out of Knockturn Alley and they all had drains set into the floors of their basements. 

He whimpered, softly. 

No-one looked over.

He’d come to expect it by now. They didn’t care for his well-being. He knew that because they hadn’t even blinked when his father had flicked a stinging hex at him when he started to look like he might bolt.

_Fenrir, stay where you are_.

He had disappointed his father. He knew that. He had been growing up the perfect pureblood son, he had been doing alright at school, he’d even been allowed to try out for the Quidditch team, though he hadn’t got in. He was polite and well-behaved at dinners and parties, he knew who to talk to, and who not to, he knew to stand still while people fussed over him.

And then he’d been bitten.

“Okay, let’s get to the second round, Latimer, do you have the syringes? We’ll need to take some teeth, too.”

He whimpered a little louder, squirming on the table, feeling the metal, wet with his own blood, beneath him. “Someone get his mouth open.” He growled, as they converged, pulling gloves on. He’d bitten one already, taken a chunk out of his arm, so they were warier this month.

No matter how much he struggled, though, he couldn’t escape, and soon there was harsh metal forcing his mouth wide open, wide enough to really hurt, and there were needles stabbing into his chest. The garbled noises of pain only made him seem more like an animal, and they ignored them, as usual.

“Someone get the pliers? Thank you.”

They were cold and coppery-tasting, and then he felt them lock around one of his teeth. Another man fastened a strap over his forehead, tightening it down, and then he _screamed_. The feeling of the fibres holding his teeth in popping and breaking, and then it was gone, and there was blood in his mouth and Fenrir was _screaming_ and _sobbing_ and writhing on the table, as much as the restraints would let him. “Oh, very good, the root is intact- oh, let his head go, he’s choking.” A wand was waved, and the blood was gone, as the strap went loose, and he coughed, still sobbing. 

 

An hour, a pint of blood and three more teeth later, someone came to him, undoing the strap around his neck, and wrists, helping him sit up, handing him a blue potion and telling him to drink all of it. He did, shaking, and felt a little better. He looked at the man, blinking the tears away, his throat sore, his head hurting, but the stranger didn’t look back at him. He was reading the charts, and Fenrir dropped his eyes. They didn’t care, and why would they?

 

“Is he ready?” The man nodded, undoing the straps over Fenrir’s hips and ankles, and lifted him down, summoning a smock and tugging it over his head, grumbling when the young boy struggled with the arms, still dazed from pain and blood loss. He looked up at his father, but he wasn’t even looking, talking to the leader of the team trying to “fix” him. 

He stood still, alone and forgotten, until William came and took his hand. “Come on.” He felt as if he had been naughty, and he shrank down, following his father up the stairs and out. 

When the Apparition took them to the grounds of the Flint manor, he swayed, and fell, and William tsked. “Fenrir, stand up. Get inside and… clean yourself up. I’ll have one of the elves bring you a pain potion.”

This had become one of the only times they interacted. At least once a month, sometimes more, his father would take him to Knockturn Alley, sometimes waking him in the middle of the night, and hand him over to the people who were supposed to heal him, to get rid of the monster that had taken root in him. 

His father had never been very close to him. It wasn’t The Way Things Were Done. He had been brought up by a series of nannies, house elves and tutors, like many of his peers, with elocution lessons, dancing, he’d even tried piano but hadn’t shown much talent at it. He occasionally saw his mother, but over the past year, he saw her less and less.

Marguerite was kind, and warm, and he loved going to cuddle in her lap, when he wasn’t in lessons. She would come and find him, on her good days, with things she’d found in the market, sweets and books.

 

_"Fenrir!"_

 

_Fenrir crawled out from under the dining room table, and scrambled up, carefully rearranging his shirt and combing his hair, quickly, before running up the steps to the lobby. “Father?” He raised his chin, standing straight as he’d been told, and his father took his coat off, throwing it at Felda and examining his son. The usual ritual when he got back from work. “Where is your mother?”_

 

_"She went out, Sir."_

 

_"I see. And how have you been? Were you good for your tutor?"_

 

_"Yes, Sir."_

 

_"Good lad." He put a hand on his son’s head, ruffling his hair, and Fenrir grinned happily. "Come and sit, lad." Fenrir followed his father into the sitting room, somewhere between nervous and excited. He sat, swallowing, feet dangling off the sofa, and his Father looked at him._

 

_"So."_

 

_Ominous start._

 

_"Soon, you will be going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Fenrir smiled, twisting his sneakered feet together. "We need to talk about our expectations for you. You will be representing our family, and we will expect you to uphold our values. You’ll do us proud, Fenrir."_

 

_"Mistress Flint!" Felda greeted his mother, and he looked at his father for permission to go to her. He nodded, and Fenrir stood up._

 

_"I’ll do my best, Sir."_

 

_"I’m sure you will."_

 

_Fenrir smiled, and scampered off to see his mother, running to her. She crouched down, and gave him a hug, before reaching back to her bag. “I picked you up something, darling.” She gave him a secret smile, and handed him a box, before herding him into the kitchen, a room William wouldn’t be seen dead in. “Don’t tell your father.”_

 

_Excitedly, Fenrir opened the box, and tipped it’s contents into his palm. The little blue dragon shook his head, got to his feet, and growled at Fenrir. The little boy beamed, and stroked his head, receiving a sharp nip in return. He looked up at his mother. “A Swedish Short-Snout! I love him!”_

 

_"What are you going to call him?"_

 

_"Uhm…" He bit his lip, thinking. "Lex." He nodded, and the dragon let out a gout of flame, though it wasn’t hot._

 

_His mother smiled, and straightened. “Go off and play, now, Fenrir dear.”_

 

_Fenrir scampered back to the dining room, letting the little dragon down to the floor, where it skittered under the table, and he joined it. “When I’m older, I’ll work with proper dragons, you’ll see.” He grinned, wrestling with a hand with the tiny creature, letting it grip his finger with his claws and jaws, wings flapping against the floor. “I’ll be the best dragon handler they’ve ever seen!” Lex attempted to set fire to his hand, and he yelped, withdrawing instinctively, the little creature hanging off his finger by a clawed foot, growling ferociously. Fenrir grinned, helping him back up onto his hand, and he shook himself, spreading his wings and drifting to Fenrir’s shoulder, snuggling against him. Fenrir sighed contentedly, peering out from his hiding place, with a smile. He was a dragon handler, and this was his den._

 

Of course, that had all been before he was bitten. None of that mattered now. It didn’t matter what he wanted to be, because there was no cure for what he was, and he would never be able to get a job. He was a non-entity, he may as well not exist. 

Wearily, he made his way up to the bathroom, slipping into the bath already drawn for him, and relaxed back in the water, wincing as it touched on the cuts barely-healed. This was the routine for him, now. After this, he’d be fed and locked back in his room. 

He wiped his eyes again, sniffing. 

He was a monster. He had to be, he couldn’t be their son any more.

No-one would treat their son like this.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! I will most likely be posting more on little Fenrir as he gets older, as well as maybe some things about his family and when he joins up. 
> 
> This Fenrir is actually the one I play on tumblr, as raiserofwolves, so you can follow him there as well, if you like! 
> 
> If you liked it, or didn't like it, let me know!
> 
> Blessed be, y'all. x


End file.
